He sat a moment, as though wondering if it was worth trying to explain. ‘Oliver’s death – it’s not about the little shits who did it. It’s about what Oliver lost. All the time he didn’t have, the things he didn’t get to do. Switched off like a light, and no sense to it. Nothing will fill that hole. I know you’re doing your best, but knowing the name of the creep who killed him, that won’t do it, not even if he goes to jail. There’s nothing positive to be got out of any of this – it’s all shit.’
James was leaning back in an armchair, his long legs straight out in front, the bottle within reach, the glass sitting in the palm of his upturned hand.
‘You take it seriously, this policing lark?’
‘You were a good builder, or so you’ve told me. People ought to take pride in their work.’
‘Runs in the family, does it?’
‘My father was a die operator in a plastics extrusion factory – small place, non-union. Only time you got to open your mouth was to say “yes, sir”. What he said to me – you get the habit of bowing and scraping, it becomes part of your nature. Don’t get the habit, he said.’
‘Why the police?’
‘It was the 1980s,’ Tidey said. ‘I was just out of school, you know the state the country was in – queues at the American Embassy, kids begging for visas. So, a job’s a job.’
‘I don’t believe that.’
‘That was part of it. I had notions, in those days – I was young, I wanted to do something that meant something. If I wasn’t an atheist I might have joined the Legion of Mary and delivered meals on wheels. What I did was hook up with the Simon Community – soup runs, that kind of thing. One day, I walked into my local station and asked how I could become a Garda. Know what I really liked about the job?’
‘The overtime?’
‘When trouble happens, most people turn and run. It’s the people who run towards the trouble – medics, firefighters, the police – they’re the ones I wanted to be with.’
James nodded. ‘I can see the attraction in that. But there were times – on the picket lines – trying to protect the little we had, our backs were to the wall, and sometimes it got a bit technicolour. Your lot – the batons would come out, or they’d link arms and come at us like a tank. A lot of those fuckers were enthusiastic about their work.’
‘Wherever there are uniforms, you’ll find little corporals – people who get their kicks barking orders. But there’s all sorts in the force.’
‘No doubt – but back in the day, it was the little corporals I always seemed to come across.’
They were well into the bottle when Bob Tidey went to the flat’s claustrophobic kitchen. He found some Cheddar in the fridge and half a sliced pan and made a couple of sandwiches. James accepted his and said, ‘You still living the bachelor life?’
‘Wouldn’t have it any other way.’
‘The women are flocking, no doubt?’
Tidey grunted. ‘Have to beat them off with a stick.’
‘Life’s grand when it’s grand, right enough.’
Tidey leaned forward, his voice gentle. ‘You’ve given up, then, body and soul? Or does anything matter?’
‘I’m mildly curious about how they’re going to fix this mess – broken banks, queues for food parcels,’ James said. ‘When I was young, I waved my fist around. The workers’ flag is deepest red, all that shit. Trade unions are out of fashion now, but everything we ever got we had to fight for it – money, hours, conditions. Today, it’s like everyone’s grateful to be a unit of labour, to be plugged in or pulled out according to their master’s will.’
Tidey said, ‘People are scared. They just want this to be over, whatever it takes.’
‘After all the bullshit about the fight for freedom, about throwing off the foreign yoke – they gave the country away. The politicians fell in love with the smart fellas – gave them any law they wanted. The smart fellas made speeches and gave interviews about how smart they were, and the journalists kissed their arses. And in the end it was the smart fellas broke the country in pieces, without any help at all from the red brigades.’ There was no humour in his laugh.
‘They’ll figure something out,’ Tidey said.
‘They surely will. They always do.’
James poured more Jameson, topping up his own glass to near the brim.
‘When’s the last time you arrested one of those bastards, and all they’ve done?’
‘Not lately.’
‘Not ever.’
‘Not unless I catch him, on live television – on the halfway line at Croke Park – fucking a chicken.’
James smiled. ‘With the Artane Band standing behind him, playing “A Nation Once Again”.’
‘That would help.’
James carefully raised the brimming glass to his lips. ‘Even then, the hard neck on those fellas – he’d claim the chicken led him on.’
If she let another day end without doing something . . .
Pushing thought aside, Maura Coady reached for the phone.
‘Yeah?’
‘Mr Tidey? It’s Maura, Maura Coady.’
He said nothing and she felt a slight disappointment that he didn’t remember the name. But he was a policeman, and policemen must meet hundreds of people – and this was well over a year ago.
‘The Teresa O’Brien—’
‘Of course – Maura, it’s been a while.’
He sounded tired, his words a little slurred.
‘There’s something, I’m not sure – when I say it, it doesn’t sound—’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘There’s a car, parked outside my house – I’ve wanted to call you for – look, I know it sounds silly, but they were wearing gloves, plastic gloves.’
‘Who?’
‘The men. There were two of them.’
‘Look, Maura, I’m – it’s getting late, and I’m on my way home – it isn’t – look, I’ll give you a call first thing in the morning, OK?’
‘Of course, of course, it may be nothing.’
‘Good to hear from you – I ought to drop around, come see you.’
‘Of course.’
‘First thing in the morning.’
When Tidey came back from the toilet, James’s eyes were closed, his head back, his hand still holding his half-empty glass. Tidey took the glass away. He brought a blanket from the bedroom and draped it over the sleeping figure. Before he left he switched on the kitchen light, so James could get his bearings if he woke during the night. Then he switched off the main light and went in search of a taxi.
16
Noel Naylor’s footsteps echoed in the stairwell. He was halfway towards Vincent’s squat on the fourth floor when he met Michelle Flood coming down.
She smiled and grimaced. ‘Late for work.’
‘Need a lift?’
‘My car’s downstairs, thanks. Vincent’s in the shower.’
Noel had coffee ready when Vincent emerged from the bathroom.
‘Met herself on the stairs – this is looking serious.’
‘Could be. She’s – you know—’ Vincent shrugged.
‘Good for you. Hope it works out. Meanwhile—’ Noel offered a folded piece of paper. Vincent opened it and saw a name and an address.
‘Thanks, but I don’t think so.’
‘If it was me—’
‘I broke his nose, he gave evidence against me, I went away for eight months – it balances out.’
‘He’s got it coming.’
Vincent folded the piece of paper, left it on the kitchen counter. ‘You’re probably right, but these things – do you know Michelle’s brother, Damien?’
‘Not personally – I’ve heard of him.’
‘Their younger brother, Conor – he was done for shoplifting from an off-licence. Damien dropped in to see the shopkeeper, told him to withdraw the complaint. The shopkeeper told him to fuck off, so Damien put him on his back in Beaumont for two weeks. Michelle gave him an alib
i, said he was with her that evening – but the cops had it on CCTV. When I went into the Joy, Damien was already there nearly two years. When I left, he still had a year to do.’
‘I see your point, but—’
‘The kid, Conor – he got probation for the shoplifting. It’s a mug’s game, taking these things personally.’
‘It’s your call – I just thought you should have the option.’
Vincent cupped the back of his brother’s neck, his voice warm. ‘I appreciate that – thanks. But we’ve got a big job to do. From here on, no emotional shit, just business.’
Noel picked up the folded piece of paper. ‘Your call – besides, it’s a long road. Put it in your wallet – maybe you’ll change your mind.’
Vincent smiled. ‘Not out of the question.’
When he went into the courtroom, Bob Tidey looked towards the back row and saw Trixie Dixon. A couple of rows ahead, he recognised Roly Blount, Frank Tucker’s chief enforcer. Here to see that Christy Dixon behaved like the patsy he was. Tidey turned away without acknowledging Trixie.
There would be a number of cases processed this morning – this was a filtering court, cases sorted like mail for sundry destinations, remands and postponements as well as sentencing in cases already pleaded. Lawyers and witnesses chatted while they waited for the judge to emerge from his chambers. You could tell the defendants – they were the ones with the nervous, pale faces. Everyone else was going home when the show was over.
Cases moved quickly and it was no time before the court clerk intoned, ‘The DPP versus Christopher Dixon, for sentencing.’
The judge was one of those smart, decisive guys – no bluster, no quips, no throwing shapes. He was here to get a job done. Bob Tidey liked that kind of judge.
‘I understand the defendant was cooperative, Detective Sergeant?’
‘He admitted the break-in, Judge,’ Tidey said, ‘and when we found the gun, he immediately admitted possession.’
‘His counsel says he was holding onto it for someone?’
‘I believe that’s true, Judge.’
‘Have there been any further arrests in this matter?’
‘Mr Dixon said he didn’t know the name of the person who asked him to hide the gun. I believe that’s true, Judge. I also believe that Mr Dixon believed – and I think he was right – that he had little choice but to do as he was told.’
‘Has he made any effort to help the police lay hands on the owner of the gun?’
‘Judge, we asked him the questions and I believe he answered them as truthfully as he could. I believe he knew the gun owner to be a dangerous person – knew him by sight and by reputation but not by name.’
‘Have the police been able to establish if the gun was previously used in criminal activity?’
‘No, Judge – Technical did the usual tests, but it’s not a match to any crime for which we have records. We made inquiries of PSNI, but there’s no match in the North either.’
The judge nodded. The court was silent for a while as he made a note. There were judges on whom Bob Tidey’s message would be lost, but this wasn’t one of them. This young gobshite is being as straight as he can be without getting a bullet in the head. The judge finally looked up at Christy.
‘Mr Dixon – I appreciate your dilemma. You felt yourself under a measure of duress, from someone you believe to be dangerous. But that does not justify your action – taking possession of a lethal weapon, a weapon that might, but for happenstance, have been used in some appalling criminal enterprise. Two years on the break-in, final year suspended. Three years on the gun-possession charge, final year suspended.’
Christy’s counsel was on his feet. ‘To run concurrently, Judge?’
‘Yes.’
Three years, total, one suspended. Christy would be out in maybe sixteen months if he behaved himself, which he probably would. Trixie Dixon was still sitting at the back. He nodded his gratitude to Tidey. Roly Blount had already left.
17
Mickey Kavanagh looked at his watch again. Frank Tucker was twenty minutes late. Nothing unusual – Frank was always late. The mid-morning sun was warm, the sky blue – Mickey relaxed, lit another smoke. After a couple of minutes, Frank’s Saab stopped at the corner of Le Fanu Road. Mickey threw away his cigarette and climbed into the back.
Tucker nodded his hello and the driver, a big man named Sullivan, took them off down Ballyfermot Road.
‘It’s about Junior Kelly,’ Kavanagh said.
Tucker said, ‘Not here.’
They drove in silence and a few minutes later they were on their way through the Phoenix Park. The Saab stopped close to the Papal Cross and Tucker and Kavanagh got out. They strolled across the open landscape, towards the mound below the cross.
‘I have the car swept every day,’ Tucker said. ‘My house, the pub – we’ve never found anything, but the technology they’ve got, you can’t be sure. The fuckers are all over me. It’s not a problem, long as we’re careful.’
Kavanagh was looking up at the massive cross. ‘My mother still talks about bringing us all up here thirty years ago, when the Pope came. Pretty much everyone in the city, a million people – all waving at His Holiness.’
Tucker smiled. ‘No Holy Joes in my family.’
‘She was pregnant with me. She named me after Father Michael Cleary.’ Kavanagh snorted. ‘Prancing around up there beside the Pope, him and Bishop Casey, directing the show. Casey knew well that Mick Cleary had a two-year-old son, but Cleary didn’t know the Bishop had his own son tucked away in the States.’
‘The good old days – saints and scholars and a randy clergy.’
‘My ma was properly pissed after it all came out.’
When they were standing below the cross, Frank Tucker said, ‘You’ve got a problem?’
‘It’s Junior Kelly.’
‘What’s the story?’
‘He feels he’s not appreciated.’
‘He’s a wanker.’
‘It’s turned serious. He’s been talking to Chapman’s people.’
‘Is this pub gossip or is it solid?’
‘Chapman sent one of his tools to see me last night, told me Junior came to see him twice.’
‘With a view to what?’
‘Junior thinks you and Chapman will end up butting heads. This way, he crosses over and sets you up, Chapman comes out on top – and Junior’s got himself into a snug place.’
‘You sure of this?’
‘Played me a tape – it’s Junior’s voice.’
‘And Chapman is pissing him away?’
‘Must have his reasons.’
Tucker stood a while, looking down at the grass, gently prodding it with the toe of his shoe. Then he looked up. ‘It’s a peace offering. Chapman turns Junior over – he’s telling us he could have done the dirty, but he didn’t.’
‘Trust him?’
Tucker shrugged.
‘What about Junior?’
‘He made his choice.’
‘I’ll send Danny and Luke.’
Tucker stood close to Mickey Kavanagh. ‘I want you to do this yourself. Tell him what’s coming, make him kneel, make him wait. When he’s done pissing and crying, tell him Frank Tucker sends his regards.’
‘Done.’
Hands in his pockets, Tucker looked up at the Papal cross and after a few seconds he said, ‘Send Danny and Luke to take care of Chapman.’
‘You sure?’
‘Maybe he’s being cute – maybe not. This game, you guess wrong and—’
‘Still, I mean—’
‘You leave a loose end, maybe it trips you up. He goes.’
‘Gonna be a great summer,’ Vincent Naylor said.
Albert Bannerman made a see-sawing hand gesture – maybe, maybe not. They were sitting at a table outside Grogan’s pub. Somewhere up the lane that led to Grafton Street, three kids were whining a barely recognisable Oasis song over a couple of off-tune guitars.
‘It was like
this last year,’ Albert said. ‘April, May, the sun is splitting the bricks. What happened? August, rains all day and the country is flooded. Everything’s upside down with this country.’
‘Grab some rays while it’s here.’
Albert’s Guinness had a couple of inches left in the glass. Vincent Naylor was still just halfway through his Southern Comfort. Drinking in the afternoon wasn’t his usual style, but this kind of meeting, some people can read a meaning into ordering a Coke.
‘The country’s fucked,’ Albert said. ‘The big boys got too greedy, ran everything off a cliff.’
Vincent Naylor nodded. When he thought about it, though, the big boys might have got greedy, but when the shekels are there to be picked up, what else are you gonna do? Name of the game, right?
‘Off a cliff. You know Jimmy Wrigley?’
Vincent shook his head.
‘Does a bit of work for me, time to time. Last week, he was picking up a Lancia, outside some fella’s house – Mount Merrion, I think, late in the evening, almost had the door open. Fella comes out of the house, stops and looks at Jimmy. Jimmy’s frozen, knows he should be running like fuck, but he’s just standing there and the fella starts laughing. Throws his head back – Jimmy said the guy was half hysterical – hooting like a fucking monkey. Fella puts his hand in his pocket, takes out his car keys and throws them to Jimmy. Take it, he says, off you go. They’re taking the house, he says, the judge gave me two weeks to move out. They’ve taken the credit cards. They’ve even taken the fucking Ten Year Ticket for Lansdowne Road. They’re coming for the car tomorrow. Fuck ’em, he says – you might as well have it.’
Albert grinned. ‘Jimmy says, fair play to you, sir, and the fella starts laughing again. Like I say – upside down, it is. This country’s fucked.’
Vincent took a sip of his Southern Comfort. He wondered if he maybe went down and gave the three little gobshites a tenner they’d take their Oasis shit somewhere up the road.
Albert Bannerman finished off his pint and took a long drag from his cigarette. ‘Noel’s OK, then?’
The Rage Page 7
